If You Were with Me on the Bridge
by Kryptaria
Summary: John sent Sherlock away. John's eyes had been entirely cold. That was a strange way to describe them, wasn't it? Temperature-based metaphor standing in for emotions. Messy, not empirical. Emotions have never really been Sherlock's area. Sequel to If You Were Mine.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**This story immediately follows the events of If You Were Mine. If you haven't read it, please start there, and welcome aboard!

Co-authored with the brilliant **The_Kinky_Pet**. Crossposted to AO3, along with the **If You Were... 'verse** collection of outtakes and supplemental stories.

* * *

**Wednesday, 10 Mar 2010**

_I'm here, Sherlock. Where are you? -Molly_

Sherlock stared at the words on his BlackBerry. Automatically, he looked down at the river, recognizing the bridge by its railing, and typed out a response. His location was a fact, and facts were comfortable and familiar.

John's boyfriend, Jim. A 'real sweetheart'. Made for each other. Was that why? Had John chosen Jim over Sherlock?

Cold, damp air seeped through his clothes. John hadn't buttoned his coat or fixed his scarf before sending him away.

John had sent him away.

"_Sherlock? Are you all right?"_

He stared down at the river, trying not to think, but for him, that was even harder than trying not to have a heartbeat. There were ways he could manage that, though, weren't there?

He couldn't live without his work. He couldn't live without a focus, something to help his thoughts rise up out of the static, to give him clarity and precision.

"_Please, say something."_

John had become his focus. He wanted John. He _needed_ John like he needed his work, like he'd needed drugs before he'd found his work.

"_Sherlock, please. You're scaring me."_

John was gone.

"_Sherlock!"_

A touch dragged him back to his body, a little tug on his sleeve, and he stared down at a woman, disoriented and confused.

_Analyze,_ he thought, and his senses lit up, flooding his mind with reports. Damp air, darkness. Hammersmith Bridge. Distant late-night traffic. Brown hair, frizzed by the humidity and half-tamed into a ponytail. Carefully applied makeup, lipstick in need of refreshing. T-shirt, pink cardigan, blue jeans, wool coat. Heavy duffle bag at her feet. Lab kit. Perfume.

"Molly." Sherlock looked around again. He was on the Hammersmith Bridge. "What —" he began, before he closed his mouth, unsure what he'd meant to ask.

Her eyes were very wide and fixed on him. Her usual expression of vacant adoration was absent. "Sherlock, what's wrong? Are you — are you hurt?"

_Yes._

He shook his head, because he wasn't going to share John with her. He wasn't going to share this, not with her or anyone else.

Sherlock was practiced at deception, but he failed — spectacularly, judging by how her expression turned to desperate concern. "Oh, God. What's wrong, Sherlock?" she pleaded, her hand fluttering about as if she wanted to touch him again, but didn't quite dare. He turned away to delete her presence.

John had a very expressive face. Not that he didn't have mysterious and puzzling expressions — that was part of his appeal — but there was always something warm, something... _feeling_ about his eyes.

"_Sherlock?"_

John's eyes had been entirely cold. (That was a strange way to describe them, wasn't it? Temperature-based metaphor standing in for emotions. Messy, not empirical.) That look had been chilling. (Metaphor again.) The look of a man who shoots without hesitation and doesn't —

Sherlock's mobile rang. He snatched it from his pocket, hoping to see John's name, even though John never called. He texted, just as Sherlock did.

But the call was from Lestrade. Sherlock ignored it and dropped the mobile back into his pocket.

"_Sherlock? You're not going to answer that?"_

Data. He needed more data. John had been injured. Wrist splinted, arm in a sling. Knee braced, supported with a crutch. That face... It wasn't a beautiful face, not in any usual sense. Commanding and appealing. John might have been anyone, startlingly forgettable, but that wasn't true. Would Sherlock be able to delete John if he tried, or —

"_You're shivering... Sherlock? Right, then."_

Something pulled at Sherlock's coat sleeve, hard enough to jerk him to the left. A small, pale hand with chipped nail varnish. (Not John. Obvious. Observation of the basest sort. Simple. _Obvious._) Molly.

There was a taxi idling, door open. Sherlock blinked.

"Come on, Sherlock. In you go," she said. Her tone was strange, not the same inflection she used when addressing him at the lab.

_Dull._

Sherlock looked back to the river. He deleted Molly's presence. Right. _Delete_. Would he be able to delete John if —

The hand was back, this time gripping him harder, curled around his arm rather than just his coat. Impossible to concentrate. Sherlock jerked his arm out of Molly's grasp and took a step to the right.

Molly ran around to his other side. "Stop that," she said, and started pushing him, one hand reaching up to his shoulder, the other low on his chest, surprisingly forceful. "Just get in the cab."

He stood there, frowning at her.

She pushed hard enough to move him, first one step, then another. "It's time to go, okay?" she said gently.

Sherlock scanned Molly's face and, alongside her usual nervous anxiety, he saw a surprising new expression on her pale features. It was one he'd seen on other faces before. Determination.

Without a word, Sherlock climbed into the cab.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wednesday, 10 Mar 2010**

"This was the knife attack at that shop, yeah?" Dimmock asked, picking up his glass.

Lestrade nodded, grimacing at the memory. "Yeah. Not my case, but I was in the area. Only turns out, it wasn't a knife attack. It was a bloody sword."

"No shit?"

"A bloody sword," Lestrade repeated, just as his phone rang. Always happened, right when he got to the best parts. He checked the number, but it came up blocked. Still, there was no question of ignoring it. "Be right back," he muttered, heading for the pub door.

Since it wasn't raining, he left his jacket behind. There was a thick crowd of smokers out front, making his craving hit hard. He'd put his patch on some time at oh-dark-a-m, and it had probably long since gone dry.

"Lestrade," he answered, shivering with the cold.

"Detective Inspector," a woman said. Her voice was familiar, sweet and seductively low, not quite a public school accent. "I'm sorry to call you at this hour."

"Who is this?" he asked a little suspiciously. Was his wife putting her mates up to checking on him now? If she wanted to know where he was, she shouldn't have suggested he take a few days on his own to think about their marriage.

"Sherlock Holmes is in trouble, Detective."

Lestrade went from irritated husband to wary detective in a heartbeat. "What? Where? Who are you?" he demanded sharply.

"I don't know where he is, Detective. Please, find him. He shouldn't be alone."

"What the hell are you — Hello?" he demanded over the click. He took his phone from his ear and glared at it, though he knew better than to expect her number to reappear.

"Fuck," he muttered, quickly calling Sherlock. These days, it seemed like he rang Sherlock more than his own wife. And God help him, Sherlock was friendlier half the time.

Sherlock preferred to text and therefore ignored most phone calls. Lestrade's calls were an exception, since they usually brought him a case. Still, Sherlock did sometimes forget his mobile, or turn it off, or go into a no-coverage area. Lestrade had no reason to sound the alarm, except for the woman's call... And who the fuck was she?

Lestrade moved up one name in his phone book. Six years back, Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, had given Lestrade his contact information, back when they'd both been working to get Sherlock off the drugs. He stood a moment, inhaling second-hand smoke, his finger hovering over the call button. He wasn't quite ready to contact the frankly creepy Mycroft Holmes. It might well be nothing more than a prank call, even though Lestrade's instincts told him otherwise.

He went back inside, finding some pound coins to feed to the cigarette machine, and checked the time: half ten. As he retrieved his fresh pack of cigarettes from the machine, he decided he'd give it a few minutes and try again.

* * *

Most people forgot that Molly Hooper was a doctor. The fact that these days her patients started out dead didn't invalidate her medical training. Then again, it didn't precisely require a doctor to realize that Sherlock was... somehow _not well_. Well, there was no sign of injury or illness, no hint that Sherlock was on any narcotics. Her mind hesitated to think 'damage', but _something_ traumatic had happened to him. She could almost think he'd suffered a head injury, but this wasn't catatonia, nor was it the almost drunken act of someone with a concussion.

Sherlock had lucid moments when he responded to her. When she hadn't found him at the apartment to which he'd summoned her, she'd texted him. He'd responded with his location on the bridge. Something must have happened to him — something that required her help gathering evidence. But he didn't seem injured, so it couldn't have been a physical assault.

The ring of his mobile jarred her out of her self-doubt. Sherlock was staring out the window of the taxi; he didn't even react.

"Sherlock?" she asked tentatively, in the silence after the first ring.

He didn't move. It rang again, the sound slightly muffled by his coat pocket.

"I'm going to answer it, okay?" she asked, reaching out before she realized she'd have to touch him. He didn't like to be touched, but she didn't have much choice. Whoever kept calling might know something about what had happened to Sherlock — might be able to help.

"I'm... er. I'm just going to get it out of your pocket, okay?" she warned, giving him plenty of time to object or react. Still, actually putting her hand into his coat pocket felt as hazardous as petting a snake, and she couldn't suppress a sigh of relief as she pulled her hand back, clutching the phone.

The display didn't show the caller's name — just a phone number. She found the answer button and pressed it before setting the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

There was a moment's pause before a familiar voice asked, "What the bloody hell? Is this Sherlock Holmes' mobile?"

"No. I mean yes, but this is Molly," she said, before realizing who the caller was. He sounded so _different_ on the phone — more harsh and abrupt, for one. "Oh! Greg!"

"Molly?" Now he sounded baffled. "Is Sherlock there? Is he all right?"

"Yes, he's with me. He's..." She paused, looking at Sherlock, wondering how to explain. She didn't know his condition. It seemed rude to be talking about him like this, but apparently he wasn't paying attention. "No, he's not all right. I don't know," she said more quietly.

"Shit. Is he hurt? Does he need to go to A&E?"

"Well," Molly said, struggling for the right words to describe Sherlock right now. He was still staring out the window.

"I'm asking _you,_ Molly, not him. Sod wouldn't take himself to hospital unless he were missing a limb, and maybe not even then," Lestrade grumbled.

Molly's laugh was more a desperate, choked little sound. It was true, but she couldn't quite reach through the fog of worry to find humor even in that. "No. I'm... Well, I'm taking him back to my house. I don't know what else to do."

"Right. I'll meet you there. He might be in danger, so I want you to be careful, Molly. All right?"

She wasn't in law enforcement; she hadn't even considered an outside threat. She twisted to look out the back window, but she had no idea what she was looking for. "Okay. I think it's okay," she finally said, more to reassure herself than out of any certainty.

She gave Greg her address, glancing at Sherlock, but he didn't react at all. "We're about ten minutes away," she said.

"I'm about thirty, but I'll try and hurry. Be careful, Molly."

"Okay. 'Bye, Greg," she said, finding the button to end the call. She was able to drop the phone in Sherlock's pocket without actually touching him, but then she pressed her fingers to his arm, trying to rouse him from his blank fixation on the window. "Sherlock? Sherlock, Greg's coming over, okay?"

Silently, Sherlock closed his eyes.

* * *

Molly's house was tiny, with a little yard that she never had time to tend and an overgrown hedge scratching at the kitchen window. Conscious of Greg's warning that they could be in danger, she hurried Sherlock up the porch, steering him with gentle touches to his elbow while fumbling in her purse for her keys. As soon as they were inside, she locked the door, reminding herself that Greg would be here soon. Greg was Sherlock's friend; he'd know what to do.

She hurried Sherlock inside and locked the door. Toby was yowling for attention; it was well past time for them to be curled up in bed. "Sherlock? That's Toby, my cat," she said, dropping her purse on the foyer table before she hung her coat on the usual hook.

No response.

"Let's just get your coat off, Sherlock" she prompted gently, reaching up behind him to tug the coat off his shoulders. She gave him every opportunity to protest; he didn't, though he was no help, either. Thinking he might want to call someone when he felt better, she took the mobile from his coat pocket.

"Why don't you sit down? I'll make you some tea," she offered, touching his arm again. That seemed to be the way to get him moving.

Molly brought him to the living room and paused, but he continued walking, crossing to sit on the sofa under the back window. He pulled his feet up, heels on the edge of the cushion, and folded his arms over his knees. She almost asked him to take off his shoes, but he looked so sad — so lost in his own thoughts — that the words died on her lips.

"Okay. I'll get that tea," she said softly, and went to the kitchen.

Keeping one eye on the clock, she busied herself with making tea. She found some biscuits, which she put onto a little plate, thinking Sherlock might like something to eat. Because Toby was yowling at her, she put a little kibble in his bowl, but he wanted attention, not food.

Sherlock liked his tea strong and dark with three sugars, so she left his to steep longer than hers. She stirred in the sugar carefully, hoping that maybe the tea would help snap him out of his current state.

Toby followed her back across to the living room. Sherlock hadn't moved. Molly put the plate of biscuits down on the table before she circled around to sit on the sofa beside him. "Sherlock? I brought you tea," she offered. "Just the way you like it. Three sugars, right?"

He frowned, barely. It was a tiny movement, causing only a slight crease on his brow, but it was something.

"Here," she said, reaching up for his arm. She tugged his left sleeve carefully, and he allowed his arms to unfold. His head turned; he watched his hand as she moved it away from his bent legs and set the handle of the warm mug in his fingers.

His fingers closed around the handle. He unfolded his legs, setting his feet on the floor, and leaned back into the cushions.

Toby immediately jumped up, naturally claiming a new human's lap for his own.

Sherlock didn't react.

"Okay," Molly said, her eyes going from the tea to the cat and finally to Sherlock's face. "There's some biscuits here, too," she finally said, gesturing to the plate on the table. She waited another moment and then gave up, going back to the kitchen to get her own tea. She added milk but no sugar, worriedly thinking that she would have to go to bed soon. She had to work tomorrow, after all.

Sipping her tea, she leaned against the counter to look at Sherlock. He still hadn't moved, except to rest the tea on his knee. Toby had sprawled across his lap and was kneading his paws into Sherlock's leg. Molly almost went to shoo him away — Sherlock always wore such expensive clothes — but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. Maybe Toby would make him feel better, eventually. It always worked for her.

She couldn't look at him anymore. It hurt too much to see him so diminished. Sherlock was so dynamic, so _alive,_ always striding about and making demands and being so difficult before he'd finally come up with some brilliant conclusion that no one else would ever reach. To see him diminished like this, reduced by _something,_ made her feel helpless. She wanted to put her arms around him and hold him and tell him that she'd find a way to make it all right again, but she couldn't.

Heartbroken, she turned to look out the kitchen window instead, hoping for Lestrade to arrive soon.

* * *

References:

Toby:  . /blog/02february


	3. Chapter 3

**Wednesday, 10 Mar 2010**

It took thirty-five minutes for the taxi to drop Lestrade at Molly's address. He'd never visited her before, but it was precisely the type of place he would have pictured for her: neat but slightly overgrown and neglected. It was too small, though; Lestrade couldn't picture Sherlock Holmes here at all. He'd overwhelm the place with the force of his personality in two minutes.

Lestrade had studied the street on his way over and seen no threats. A quick glance up and down the block revealed nothing — no shadowy figures lurking in yards or under trees, nobody sitting in a parked car, nobody cruising slowly past.

He went up the porch steps and knocked, wondering belatedly if his breath smelled like cigarettes. Smoke clung to his clothes, but he could blame that on the pub. Everyone was so used to Molly the Pathologist that they forgot she was also Dr. Hooper. He wasn't really up for another lecture on the perils of smoking.

Molly answered at once, as if she'd been waiting by the door. Her eyes were always big and earnest, but they seemed round as saucers now, looking up at him with an edge of desperation that didn't fit with his mental image of the sharp Dr. Hooper, unless Sherlock had been bullying her again.

"Thank God. Come in, Greg. Do you want some tea?" she asked all in one breathless rush. "Here, take off your jacket," she added before he could answer.

He let her take his jacket, saying, "Tea would be great, thanks, Molly. Where's Sherlock?"

She gestured at a wide archway to the left, at the foot of a short staircase. "On the couch. He's... Well, you'll see. I'll get that tea."

He nodded, his worry growing with each passing moment, and went through the archway. It let out into an open room — kitchen to the left, dining table next to a door ahead, living area to the right. It was neat, a little over-cluttered, done in light pastels that should have looked cheerful.

But when his gaze finally fell on Sherlock, Lestrade could only stare. If he'd ever thought about it before, he might have imagined the sight of Sherlock Holmes holding a cup of tea, with a purring cat on his lap, kneading his leg, might have been charming. Or at the very least, amusing. But paired with the vacant, pinched look on Sherlock's face, the sight made Lestrade's stomach clench.

Sherlock looked _pathetic_. Lestrade had seen Sherlock with glazed eyes, track marks scabbing his bare arms, pacing at full tilt as he rattled off every thought that came into his head so quickly that Lestrade could barely follow. He'd seen Sherlock crash hard as paranoia crept into his brain, until he curled up in a ball, hiding his face from the world, snapping at anyone who came too close. That had been pathetic. Pathetic in a horrible, familiar way that still made Lestrade feel flushed with anger.

This was an entirely different type of pathetic, the kind that made his chest go painfully tight and made him want to talk to Sherlock the way he would his nine-year-old nephew, telling him that everything was going to be okay.

Sherlock was there, on the couch, dressed immaculately as always in one of his suits that cost more than Lestrade made in a month, the jacket hanging open to show his tightly fitted shirt. Sherlock didn't look up as Lestrade entered, but he wasn't in his usual pose that screamed _I'm thinking, so leave me alone_. He was so still that he almost didn't seem to be present.

Lestrade walked over slowly, not wanting to startle Sherlock or the cat. He crouched down so he could look up into Sherlock's face, studying him not as a friend but as a detective. His eyes seemed bright and normal, not bloodshot or unfocused. He wasn't blinking rapidly, and his breathing looked steady and slow, not racing or arrhythmic.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said softly, lifting his hand to reach for Sherlock. The man had some peculiar issues about personal space, one moment refusing to let anyone touch him, the next demanding that someone frisk through his pockets to find his phone because he couldn't be arsed to bother.

No reaction from Sherlock. The cat perched on his leg turned just enough to look at Lestrade with squinted eyes. He noticed that the cat's claws had pierced Sherlock's trousers, tugging a few threads loose.

Carefully, Lestrade touched the back of the hand that was holding the mug. Sherlock's skin was cool but not cold, not clammy. "Here, let me take that," Lestrade said, and Sherlock's hand relaxed enough that he could take the mug. Sherlock was responsive, thank God, though minimally.

The mug was cold, still full — he clearly hadn't even touched it. Lestrade moved out of his crouch and sat down beside Sherlock, careful to stay far enough away that he wouldn't feel crowded. Immediately, the cat detached from Sherlock's leg and walked over him to Lestrade, purring like a broken motor.

"That's Toby," Molly said from where she hovered by the dining table, as if uncertain if she should approach.

Lestrade stroked a hand down the cat's back, watching Sherlock. When the cat had moved, Sherlock had leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Now, he was frowning, a barely-there line between his brows, lips pressed thin.

"Want to talk about it, Sherlock?" Lestrade offered, though without any real hope. Lestrade had sat on the bathroom floor and wiped Sherlock's face with a cold flannel while he vomited up everything he'd eaten over the last week, and Sherlock had never said a word.

Instead of answering, Sherlock lifted his head slightly, nostrils flaring as he inhaled. Startled by the abrupt sign of life, Lestrade sat forward, only to flinch back as Sherlock rose abruptly enough to startle Toby into bolting, claws-out.

Molly gasped in surprise as Sherlock blew right past her and out into the hallway. Wondering if he'd missed something, Lestrade looked at her, but she shook her head, just as confused as he was. Silently cursing, Lestrade jumped to his feet and went after Sherlock.

He was rifling through Lestrade's jacket, finding the cigarettes and matchbook from the pub. He took both, dropped the jacket on the floor, and went out the front door, leaving it open.

"Greg?" Molly asked, rushing out after him.

"It's all right, Molly." He retrieved his jacket from the floor and shrugged it on as he went after Sherlock, hoping to stop him before he made it out the gate.

But Sherlock wasn't running. He'd stopped at the edge of the porch, and Lestrade caught the red-gold flash of firelight on Sherlock's face as he lit a match and bent close to it. He let the match fall as he exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

Lestrade sighed in relief and leaned against the porch railing opposite, watching Sherlock smoke. With anyone else — even a stranger — he would've known what to say. But Sherlock was unlike anyone else, and Lestrade was truly out of his depth. Problem was, there was no one else Lestrade would trust to help him. Even if Lestrade called in some crisis counselor or mental health worker, they'd never understand Sherlock — and Sherlock would eat a stranger alive.

Calling in Sherlock's brother was out of the question. This wasn't drugs. Whatever was going on in Sherlock's head, Lestrade felt certain it needed a gentle touch to help him work through it, and though Lestrade had only met Mycroft Holmes once, he knew there was nothing gentle about the man.

Still silent, Sherlock worked his way through the cigarette with deep breaths. When it was almost burned to the filter, he shook another one out of the pack and used the butt to light the new one. He let the butt fall, sending it bouncing down the stairs to the flagstone path.

With a faint sigh, Lestrade went to stamp it out. Molly's rubbish bins weren't in the front yard, so he grimaced and shoved the extinguished cigarette butt into his pocket, figuring he'd toss it later.

Molly came out a few minutes later, bundled in her coat, and she offered Lestrade a mug of tea.

"Is he..." she began, but her voice trailed off. She bit her lip, looking up at Sherlock.

"Yeah," Lestrade agreed softly, taking the mug with a nod of thanks. To Sherlock, he said, "Here, give me one."

Sherlock didn't offer the pack and matches, but he didn't resist when Lestrade took them and away. Lestrade lit a cigarette and offered it politely to Molly, who declined with a little wrinkle of her nose. Feeling guilty about the second-hand smoke, Lestrade put the pack and matches on the porch railing and tipped his head, beckoning Molly to follow him.

Lestrade walked out into the front yard, feeling winter-dry grass and mud squelch underfoot. Molly looked up as they walked under a leafless tree, saying, "I keep meaning to have it trimmed, but I never have time to call in a yard service, and my chainsaw is broken."

Lestrade blinked, trying to picture her with a chainsaw, but filed it away to ask later. She was just trying to fill the uncomfortable silence that was about to get a lot more uncomfortable.

"Molly," he said very softly, remembering just how much she liked Sherlock, even when he was being a proper bastard to her. He looked back, a little worried that Sherlock would hear, but Lestrade needed answers, and wasn't willing to let Sherlock out of his sight — not in this state.

She looked up at him, frowning even more. She hugged herself, tucking her hands under her arms.

"When you found him, was he hurt?" he asked quietly. "Had he been in a fight or something?"

She shook her head immediately. "No. He was just... standing there on the bridge, looking out at the water. At first, I thought it was just him being... you know. But then he wouldn't talk, and I got worried that he was going to... _do _something."

_Jump,_ Lestrade thought, his gut clenching again with worry. If Sherlock Holmes wanted to kill himself — seriously wanted to kill himself — then Lestrade doubted that anyone could stop him, even a hospital.

Lestrade had to fight to keep his voice steady. "Right." He patted Molly's shoulder comfortingly. She leaned into the touch, looking down, her eyes misty.

"I don't think he would, now," she said. "But I don't know. Psychiatry isn't my specialty. I just don't want to call anyone — he'd _hate_ me —"

"It's all right," Lestrade interrupted gently, giving her shoulder a little squeeze before he let go. "Sherlock's not like other people, Molly. Did he say _anything_ to you? Anything at all?"

"My name. But only when I touched his arm. He didn't even look at me before then. For a minute... it was like he didn't even know me."

Lestrade took another deep drag of smoke. He kept one eye on Sherlock, but he hadn't moved, except to smoke his current cigarette down about halfway.

Before he could speak, she said, "He... he wanted me to bring a scene of crime kit somewhere — to someone's flat. He said to bring extra luminol."

Lestrade looked back at her, his heart skipping painfully. "Did he say why?"

She bit her lip, shaking her head. "When I got to the building, he wasn't there. So I texted him, thinking maybe he hadn't heard the buzzer, only he responded to say he was on the bridge."

"All right," Lestrade said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. "I need the address. I'm going to go check it out."

"Greg..." The protest died out, though, and she nodded instead. "Okay."

"I'll have my phone with me the whole time. If something happens — if _anyone_ comes here — you call the police, and then call me, understand? Police first."

She nodded, wide-eyed. "How long do you think you'll be?"

He shook his head, taking one last drag before he pitched the cigarette out into the street. To hell with litter laws. "Quick as I can, I promise. But I'm going to Sherlock's flat, too. Can he stay here with you tonight?"

"Oh! Um, okay. Sure," she said nervously.

"Here, I'll help you get him settled before I go, just in case he gives you any trouble," Lestrade said, leading her back over to the porch.

Sherlock was already reaching for the pack. Lestrade intercepted him, taking it from his hand. For the first time tonight, their eyes met, and a chill passed through Lestrade. He'd seen Sherlock high as a kite and crashing to near-catatonic lows, caught up in the throes of a case and at the most apathetic levels of boredom imaginable, but he'd never seen _this_. Sherlock's eyes were utterly blank, as if he were aware of his surroundings but not processing them.

"Back inside, Sherlock, before you catch a chill," Lestrade said, keeping his voice calm and even, the way he'd talk down an agitated suspect.

Thank God, Sherlock let himself be guided back inside without protest. Once inside, he started right for the sofa again, though Molly tried to intercept him, saying, "Sherlock? The guest bedroom is upstairs."

"Let him. He spends half his life on his own sofa," Lestrade said softly. "Can you get a blanket?"

She hesitated, but then nodded. "Okay." With one more look after Sherlock, she went upstairs.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, hugging his bent legs to his chest. The sick feeling in Lestrade's gut intensified as he studied Sherlock's defensive, closed-in body language. It hit Lestrade suddenly, with the force of a blow — he had seen this sort of thing before, in the witness interview room. It was one of the things that had made him more than willing to switch over to the homicide division.

Lestrade's hands balled into fists and he forced himself to take a deep breath. On the job, seeing a stranger with these symptoms, it would never have taken a full thirty minutes for him to consider the possibility of sexual assault. But then, this was Sherlock. Lestrade took another deep breath.

His mind darted forward. If that was what happened, he'd need a rape kit. Maybe he could talk to Molly? He'd have to ask Sherlock, and... No. He was getting ahead of himself. Another deep breath. (And this, he reminded himself, was why you were never supposed to work a case involving your own family or friends.)

Sherlock had summoned Molly to a flat. He'd asked her to bring a forensic kit. Oh, God, it fit. Terribly, it fit. And instead of calling the police, Sherlock had called Molly to investigate, like it was one of his cases, like it was something he could handle on his own. But then it had all fallen apart, leaving Sherlock in _this_ state.

There was something fundamentally _wrong_ with the idea of Sherlock Holmes as a _victim_.

"Sherlock, Molly's upstairs," he said, keeping his voice quiet but firm — the voice he used to get victims talking. "It's just us. Did someone hurt you?"

No answer. No reaction. God, Lestrade would've done anything to get a glare and a scathing, "Don't be stupid," from Sherlock right about then.

Molly came back before Lestrade figured out what to say or do next. She had a couple of blankets and pillows. "I don't, um... Even my T-shirts won't fit him," she said, her cheeks flushed.

"A few hours in the suit won't kill him," Lestrade promised. "I'll grab something for him from his place." He felt guilty, talking about Sherlock as if he weren't even there.

"Okay," she agreed, frowning as she started to arrange the bedding. "I, um... I need to go to work tomorrow. I mean, it's not a problem — he can stay here — but I have to go, or the students will be in there unsupervised —"

"I'll call in. I don't want him alone like this. I can take him back to my bedsit, but it's a little... crowded. Either way, he can't go back to his flat." If Sherlock had been assaulted, he could still be in danger. Even if not, seeing Sherlock in this state reminded Lestrade just how self-destructive he could be. Lestrade _couldn't_ trust Sherlock alone at his place — not until he was certain Sherlock hadn't hidden drugs away. It wouldn't be the first time he'd tried.

"That's okay. You can take the guest room, if you want," she offered. "Can you..." She gestured vaguely at Sherlock and the sofa. "I'll get you the house key."

"Thanks," Lestrade answered, turning back to Sherlock. "Looks like you could use a quick kip, Sherlock. Why don't —"

He cut off, startled, when Sherlock moved, twisting catlike to kick his legs up onto the sofa, rolling over to face the back.

"That works," Lestrade muttered, moving the pillows so they were by his head instead of his feet. An oddly protective feeling swept through him as he spread the blankets over Sherlock, who clutched at them and pulled them close over his head as if he could hide from the world.

He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Just for a moment. _When I find out who did this, I'll kill the bastard,_ Lestrade swore silently.


	4. Chapter 4

**Wednesday, 10 Mar 2010**

Lestrade rang the bell for the building manager's flat, fishing his warrant card out of his pocket. In the authoritative voice that never failed to get attention, he said, "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Got an anonymous distress call concerning one of your units. I need you to let me in."

"Uh, of course. Just a moment," came the response, before the intercom buzzed. When the door clicked open, Lestrade went into the foyer. It was actually nearly two minutes before a man in a dressing gown and pyjamas joined him. He was carrying a heavy chain of keys, all neatly tagged, and looked closely at Lestrade's warrant card.

"Sorry, detective. Which one?" he asked sleepily.

"Four-D. Who's the tenant?"

They started towards the lift as the manager considered. "Four-D? That's Captain Watson, ex-military. I'll take you up."

_Captain Watson?_ Lestrade wondered, wrong-footed. Was this the Doctor John Watson from just a few days ago? It seemed unlikely to be a coincidence. Last he'd seen, John and Sherlock had been happy together — or as happy as two people could be while investigating a very messy corpse. Then again, that was probably Sherlock's definition of _happy,_ and John hadn't really blinked.

Upstairs, the manager knocked. Lestrade had already prepared a story, just in case anyone was home, but he hadn't been ready to find the flat belonged to someone he knew — someone _Sherlock_ knew.

_Fucking hell,_ Lestrade thought. That sick, cold feeling twisted through his guts all over again. Most of the time, the victim of sexual assault knew the assailant. Though, if this were a case of date rape, his chances of finding clear physical evidence were depressingly slim. He wasn't Sherlock.

When there was no answer, Lestrade asked him to unlock the door. He did, saying, "Just let me know when you're done, okay? And be sure to lock up." He unhooked the key from the chain, offering it to Lestrade.

Lestrade took the key with a nod of thanks and entered the flat, entirely on the alert. On first glance, it looked clear — no direct threats, no one present, all visible doors open. Every light in the flat was on, and Lestrade quickly turned, calling to the manager, "Oi! Anyone else been here?" The manager came back, frowning. "Lights are on," Lestrade explained.

"Dunno. I haven't seen the captain in a few days, but I'm not a doorman."

"All right, thanks," Lestrade said, frowning even more. As the manager left, Lestrade went into the flat and pushed the door closed.

The flat was neat to the point of Spartan and perfectly in order. No furniture overturned, no obvious signs of a struggle. He moved through the flat, quickly and cautiously, looking for any sign of life — or, failing that, a body — but there was no one. The window out to the fire escape was latched from the inside, so no one had done a runner when the manager had knocked.

Still cautious, he pulled on the nitrile gloves he'd taken from Molly's kit and started to look around.

Apart from the dreadful smell of the rubbish by the front door, long overdue to be taken out, everything appeared tidy. Lestrade walked slowly into the flat, looking left into the tiny kitchen and then right into the equally tiny living area. Though meticulously orderly and strangely empty, it lacked the smell of bleach and artificial feel of a recently scrubbed-down crime scene. After this many years, Lestrade had a keen sense for the fine line between _clean_ and _too clean_.

The living room held a loveseat, an armchair, and a small desk. There wasn't room for a proper sofa, but Lestrade was surprised to see there wasn't even a telly. The only electronic device was the closed laptop on the desk, beside a cord that looked like a phone charger.

And... _handcuffs?_ Hiatt solid-design speedcuffs. He reached out with one gloved hand and hooked a finger through one arm of the cuffs, feeling the weight. Definitely real. Lestrade had an identical pair, but he was law enforcement; these were very suspicious for a _doctor _to have.

Concerned by the handcuffs, he rifled quickly through the desk drawers. He had the usual assortment of bills and receipts in the top drawer. The file drawer was almost empty except for a thick file of Watson's military paperwork and a thinner file of medical reports. Apparently, Watson was in physiotherapy for his left shoulder, though there was no mention of the limp that had him walking with a cane. He was also seeing a psychiatrist, a Dr. Thompson. There were two unfilled prescription slips dated two months back. Lestrade recognized both: an antidepressant, sadly common for Met officers, and sleeping pills. Interesting that he hadn't filled either.

He opened the lid of the laptop and was prompted to enter a password. _Damn,_ he thought, closing the lid. He had techs who could break into the files, but he wasn't ready to turn this into an official investigation.

The kitchen was equally bland, with mostly empty cupboards explained by a drawer full of menus. The coffee pot held a residue of old coffee at the bottom, in contrast to the neatness of the rest of the flat, and there was a mug resting in the sink, half-full of murky water. The rest of the flat was neat, but the coffee pot hadn't even been rinsed and the dirty mug was still in the sink, not washed and in the drainer with the rest of the dishes.

Between the smell from the rubbish by the door and the way the coffee pot had evaporated, it looked like Watson hadn't been here for a couple of days (though doubtless Sherlock could have given him a more accurate time, down to the minute). But a couple of days ago, he'd been with Sherlock at the morgue, and he suspected that they'd left together. Had they come here, spent the night together, and then... then what? Where had Watson gone? Where was he now?

The rubbish bin in the bathroom provided the first real piece of evidence, not counting the cuffs: a used condom, tied off at the end. No blood or fecal matter, but at least it was something that could be analyzed. He debated leaving it in case he had a legitimate warrant to return, but then decided that he'd find a way around the chain of evidence. He dropped it into a sterile bag, made sure the bag was closed tight, and pocketed it.

In the medicine cabinet, he found paracetamol and a half-empty prescription bottle of some heavy-duty painkillers dated four months back. No other prescriptions or meds. Under the sink, though, he found a large first aid kit, better stocked than the one in the breakroom at the Yard.

A door led from the bathroom to the bedroom. Most of the room was taken up by a large bed with a neat wooden cane laying across the bottom. He recognized it as the one Watson had been carrying on Sunday. A small dresser was tucked up against a wardrobe. A quick look in the stacked cardboard boxes by the bed showed nothing out of the ordinary — alarm clock, lamp, open box of condoms, lubricant.

The contents of the dresser drawers were similarly innocuous — jumpers, T-shirts, socks, pants. His instincts were telling him this wasn't a crime scene at all. But the handcuffs and condom and the horrible blankness of Sherlock's face were all weighing on his mind.

After a moment's hesitation, Lestrade opened the wardrobe. It was as neat as the rest of the flat — desert camo uniforms, dress uniform, suits, and blue jeans. Laundry basket on the floor next to three pairs of military boots and some new-looking dress shoes. At the top of the basket, he recognized the dark green jumper John had been wearing at the morgue on Sunday. Lestrade stared at it, wondering if he'd worn it again or if he hadn't added anything to the laundry basket since.

The faint shine of metal in the back of the wardrobe caught his eye. He moved the dress uniform aside and saw an aluminum cane propped in the corner, the rubber tip worn with use, the grip indented with the print of fingers. On Sunday, Watson had been using the cane that was on the bed. If the aluminum one was his backup and he had neither with him, then how was he walking? Or had the limp been an act? _Why?_

God, what he wouldn't have given to have Sherlock with him. He knew he was missing something, but he had no idea _what_. Frustrated, he continued searching the wardrobe. There were a couple of plastic boxes on the top shelf, but Lestrade couldn't see the contents. He took them down carefully — two small boxes and one large one.

Lestrade unsnapped the lid from the largest box, revealing an assortment of whips and coiled bundles of ropes with hints of black leather underneath. He exhaled sharply, carefully lifting the riding crop that rested across the top of the box, angled so it would fit without bending the tip against the side.

Well, that explained the handcuffs.

It was hard to reconcile _this_ with the calm, polite image John Watson had presented at the morgue, but it wasn't as if Lestrade had got to know the man. He dug through the contents, but there was nothing truly _dangerous_ in there: no knives or razors, no drugs or drug paraphernalia. He found two pairs of medical shears, but they were blunt-tipped, meant for cutting through clothing — or, in this case, restraints.

He put the crop back, his feelings conflicted. The sex toys seemed harmless enough — Lestrade's wilder years had been in the eighties, and that sort of thing wasn't uncommon. He'd quickly given up on interesting Karen in any of it after they'd got married, but he wasn't too old to remember a bit of fun back then.

Then he realized that Watson was (probably) _Sherlock's boyfriend,_ and he tried to fit this evidence into that dynamic. He hadn't noticed any sign that Sherlock had been... Well, he hadn't been bruised or moving stiffly. There was no sense in speculating, and unless it was somehow related to Sherlock's current state of mind, it was none of Lestrade's business. He firmly closed the lid and turned his attention to the other boxes.

One held Watson's military decorations, pins, and a green beret. The other held baggies full of powder in varying shades of brown. His first thought was drugs, though not like any he'd ever seen. He picked up one of the baggies; the contents shifted, revealing a slip of paper labeled _Maiwand 7/09_ with a scrawl of what looked like Arabic writing below.

_Sand,_ he realized, sorting through the rest of them. Each one contained a bit of sand or dirt labeled neatly with a date and location. Most of the locations corresponded with half-remembered news reports of UK troops involved in overseas conflicts. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable at prying into something so personal, Lestrade quickly replaced the baggies and snapped the lid back onto the box.

"Jesus," Lestrade said, feeling a little guilty as he started to build a mental picture of Watson's military service. The cane meant he'd probably been invalided out or he might well still be in Afghanistan — or back here in England, at rest in a graveyard.

This was wrong. This was all wrong. If Watson was Sherlock's boyfriend, as Lestrade had guessed on Sunday, maybe Sherlock had been here last night, for another date, and this was simply where Sherlock had intended to meet Molly after his date. The crime scene he wanted her to investigate could be anywhere.

Lestrade put everything back as best he could and left, making sure to leave the lights on and lock the door. Downstairs, he knocked on the manager's door. It took a minute for the sleepy man to answer. "Everything okay?" he asked, taking the key that Lestrade offered.

"False alarm, or perhaps just the wrong address or a prank call," Lestrade said with a reassuring smile. "Thanks for letting me in. Sorry to disturb you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Thursday, 11 Mar 2010**

It was past midnight when the taxi dropped Lestrade off at 221-B Baker Street. The lock took some fiddling to open quietly; he didn't want to disturb Mrs. Hudson.

Just the thought of tossing Sherlock's flat was daunting, though not something particularly new. He'd done it a couple of times over the past few years when Sherlock's behavior became unusually erratic, even for him, and made Lestrade suspect drugs. Lestrade knew he'd been spending too much time around Sherlock the day that he'd found a baggie of tiny human bones in the bathroom cupboard and just put them back without comment.

He started a methodical search, taking his time and trying to think like Sherlock, at least as much as possible. He tried to ignore the half dozen stolen files from Scotland Yard, reminding himself that he was performing this incredible invasion of privacy strictly for Sherlock's benefit.

But Lestrade hadn't made it halfway through the living room before he realized it was absolutely bloody impossible to make this flat _safe_. He didn't find any syringes, but he did find nine different knives (two of which probably qualified as swords), a compact matte black crossbow, a mason jar of long fangs, and scalpels and razor blades _everywhere_. Lestrade would need a metal detector if he wanted any degree of assurance — not that a metal detector would pick up the chipped obsidian hatchet, much less the ceramic knife he found stabbed into the drapes.

When he opened a file box next to the sofa and found the shrunken heads — four of them, with hair still attached — he decided that staying here would do nothing for Sherlock's sanity. He couldn't make the place safe in a week, much less overnight, and after a cursory search of the usual places where a suspect might hide a stash, he turned up nothing more suspicious than a stack of kidney slices in the fridge.

Downstairs, a light flicked on as Lestrade exited Sherlock's flat. "Sherlock?" called a familiar voice.

"It's Greg Lestrade," he said, coming down the stairs. "Sorry if I woke you."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a warm smile, smoothing down her floral dressing gown. Her hair was up in curlers. "I was just making some tea. Helps me sleep. He's been a bit tetchy these past two days, poor dear. Have you brought him something?"

With anyone else, Lestrade wouldn't have considered discussing Sherlock's condition, but he'd seen real affection between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. "Not exactly," he said.

"Oh, dear. He hasn't done something, has he?"

"You said he's been... tetchy?"

"Mmm, yesterday and today. Not his usual boredom." She frowned thoughtfully. "Almost... _worried,_ I'd say."

"Any idea about what?"

"No, but you know how he is. Doesn't talk. Doesn't let anything bother him — at least, that's what he pretends," she said with a sad little smile. "Were you looking for him? He hasn't been home for a few hours."

"When did he leave?"

"Oh, earlier this afternoon. He doesn't usually say where he's going. I wish he would, though. He's one to get himself into all sorts of scrapes."

She didn't know the half of it. But Lestrade didn't want to worry her, so he smiled reassuringly and said, "He'll be gone a couple of days. Staying with a friend."

Her eyebrows shot up. "A _'friend'?_" she asked hopefully.

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. "Not like that." Mrs. Hudson's look of happy incredulity fell. Lestrade continued, "He's not doing so well. We're keeping an eye on him to... you know, just to make sure —"

"Oh." She frowned, her expression taking on a steely resolve Lestrade had never seen from her before. "Trouble with his old... habits? Poor dear. If you need anything — anything at all — you call me. Can you put my number in your mobile?"

Relieved that he didn't have to actually say anything like 'drugs' or 'assault' or 'suicide', Lestrade put her number into his mobile. He smiled a bit when she spelled out her last name without giving her first, leaving the entry as 'Hudson, Mrs'.

"I'd best be getting back to him. Sorry to —"

"Does he have his things?" she interrupted, glancing down at Lestrade's empty hands.

"His — Bloody — No. I completely forgot," he said with an embarrassed grimace. The long day was catching up with him.

"Don't you worry, dear. I'll fetch something for him. He'd be lost without his dressing gown. That'll make him feel better, you'll see," she said, bustling past him and up the stairs.

She was back a few minutes later with not one bag but two. "I do hope I packed the computer right. I put in the cable, too. Once, he said his computer wasn't working and called me to bring him the one my nephew got me one last Christmas. He spent four hours looking up bugs that eat corpses. Bugs! Put me right off my dinner."

Right at that moment, Lestrade felt like he would give anything to have Sherlock in a frenzy of research, even if the subject was carrion insects. Hell, that was useful stuff to know.

"And, you know something," Mrs. Hudson added, handing Lestrade the bags. "His wasn't broken at all — just couldn't be bothered to plug the silly thing in."

Normally, that would have made Lestrade laugh outright, but now, all he could manage was a little smile. "Thanks for the help, Mrs. Hudson."

"His toothbrush is in there, too, but no sense in packing all that soap and shampoo he likes. If he complains, you'll know he's right as rain."

That was the truth. "I can't wait, really. Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade said, and excused himself to go call a cab.

* * *

Molly tossed and turned, dozing off for a little while before waking again, worrying about Sherlock. Surely he'd recover from... whatever had happened. He'd go back to being brilliant and rude and gorgeous and _alive_. He'd never thank her for taking care of him, but that was okay.

After Molly disturbed Toby for the fifth time, he gave up on getting comfortable on the bedspread. He leapt down and yowled at the door to be let out. Maybe warm milk would help her get a few hours of sleep. She opened the door for Toby, put on her dressing gown and slippers, and followed the cat downstairs.

Not wanting Sherlock to wake in the darkness, Molly had left the range light on. She glanced towards the sofa but couldn't tell if Sherlock had fallen asleep or simply hadn't moved. He didn't react when Toby jumped onto his hip and curled up in a ball.

Molly stared. Reminding herself that she needed to get _some_ sleep, she turned away and set about finding a saucepan without making too much noise. On a night like tonight, she needed her mum's old recipe: milk, sugar, vanilla, and nutmeg. She made enough for two. If Sherlock were awake, perhaps he'd like a cup.

Molly was just pouring the second mug when she heard a noise at the front door. For one moment, she panicked, remembering Greg's warning. Then she heard a key in the lock and realized it was just Greg returning.

"Everything okay?" she whispered to Greg as he put down a couple of small gym bags and a laptop bag.

"Yeah. Picked up some things for Sherlock." He dropped her keys on the foyer table, hung his coat on the rack, and took a small paper bag out of the pocket. "How's he doing?"

Molly shook her head. "He..." She gestured to the shadowy figure still lying on the sofa. "He hasn't..." She shrugged.

Greg went into the living room and bent to peer down at Sherlock, frowning in concern. Molly had never seen him look at Sherlock like that before — at least not at the morgue. There was something obviously affectionate underneath tight-furrowed brows and deep frown lines. It made Lestrade look older, but not in a bad way.

Greg returned to Molly's side with quiet footfalls. He shrugged. "His eyes are shut. Looks like he's sleeping, but it's always hard to tell, with him." He put a hand on her shoulder. "I know you're worried, but you really should try to get some sleep."

"I can't," Molly said, though she did feel a little better, now that Greg was back. "I just made some warm milk, if you want," she offered, though Greg didn't exactly seem like the comfy-robe-and-warm-milk type.

"That'd be great. Mind if I put this in the freezer?" he asked, holding up the paper bag.

"Sure. I mean, okay," she said curiously. The top folded over several times; whatever was inside was very small. As she watched him put the bag in the freezer door, she wondered if it were some kind of medication, but decided it would be too personal to ask.

Instead, she brought the two mugs over to the kitchen table and sat down opposite him. "So, what did you find? At the flat, I mean. Was someone there?" she asked delicately, not wanting to ask if he'd found a body.

Lestrade took a deep breath and picked up the mug, fidgeting with it. "Remember Sherlock's 'assistant' from the Pogrebnov autopsy on Sunday?"

"John? He seemed nice. Oh, God! Did something happen to him?"

"No! No, he wasn't... Nobody was there at all. But that was his flat, the one Sherlock called you to."

"Oh. That's odd," she said.

Greg looked away as if uncomfortable or embarrassed. "I, ah... think that Sherlock was there for a date."

"Okay — _Oh,_" she breathed, looking back at the figure on her sofa.

"Damn," Greg muttered. "Sorry, Molly. I know you've always liked — God, I've made a right mess of this."

"No, it's... it's fine," she said, pushing back her disappointment. So what if Sherlock was gay? It wasn't as if she'd ever had a chance with him anyway. She knew that. "So, John's his... boyfriend?" she asked, trying not to sound jealous.

Instead of answering right away, Greg sighed and ran a hand through his hair before picking up his mug. "I dunno. Part of me can't help but _hope_ so. He seemed like a steady, normal bloke. Might be just what Sherlock needs."

Jealousy welled up inside Molly, and she bit her lip guiltily. This wasn't the time to feel sorry for herself. She took a big sip of the warm milk and tried to gather her thoughts. "We should call him, if he is. I mean, not _now,_ but tomorrow. He'd want to know," she added, thinking that if _she_ were Sherlock's girlfriend, she'd certainly want to know.

"Yeah. Maybe," Greg said uneasily. "Anyway, I went by Sherlock's place afterwards... If you don't mind, I really think he's better off staying here."

"Of course! I mean, it's no trouble. And Toby likes him."

Greg smiled tiredly. "Thanks. I'll stay as much as you'd like. Not like I'm living at home —" He stopped himself and shook his head. Molly didn't want to ask, but she snuck a glance at his left hand; he was still wearing his wedding ring. After a moment, Greg continued, "Anyway, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady? She said she'd come by and help out, if you want."

"Okay." She realized that sounded grudging, so she added, "I mean, I'd like that. I never have much company except Toby. The guest room upstairs is all ready. If you think Sherlock's okay on the sofa, that is."

"Probably happier on the sofa than anywhere else."

Molly smiled and finished her milk. "Well, we should really get to bed," she said, and then rushed to correct herself, "I mean, I should go to sleep."

Greg just nodded. "Me, too. I'll just leave him his things, in case he wants to change out of that suit." Greg stood, put his mug in the sink, and retrieved one of the gym bags and the laptop bag from the hallway. He put both near the coffee table and looked down at Sherlock for a few seconds.

Molly hovered in the doorway, waiting to show him upstairs to the guest room. But instead of joining her, he stood silently, looking down at Sherlock. Greg rubbed his right hand hard across the back of his neck, his left hand shoved deep in his pocket. His shoulders slumped heavily. Though she couldn't see his face, Molly could read his concern in every line of his body.

She wanted to encourage Greg to get some sleep, but couldn't intrude. After several long moments, Molly quietly slipped upstairs, leaving Greg to watch over Sherlock alone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thursday, 11 Mar 2010**

By Lestrade's watch, Molly was up at six on the dot and into the shower just a couple minutes later. Feeling obliged to be awake, he rolled out of the surprisingly comfortable guest bed and stretched. Four hours of sleep. He'd done with less. And that reminded him to send a quick email to the office to let them know he was taking the day off.

He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed his toiletries kit, and went downstairs. It was still dark out, and Sherlock was just a vague lump under the blanket. It looked like he hadn't moved all night. Silently sighing, Lestrade went into the tiny downstairs loo to wash up.

The shower was still running upstairs when Lestrade finished. Though he was craving a coffee, he went quietly into the living room and peered at Sherlock from the other side of the coffee table.

To his surprise, Sherlock _had_ moved, though most likely not consciously. He was still curled on his left side, facing the back of the sofa, only now his right arm — still wearing his black suit jacket — had emerged from the blanket and coiled loosely around Toby the cat.

It was oddly touching — oddly only because Lestrade never would have even _imagined_ this.

Quietly, not wanting to disturb either of them, Lestrade backed away and went to the kitchen. The mugs from last night were still in the sink, so he gave them a quick wash and put them in the drying rack. Molly hadn't expected to have one houseguest, much less two. He'd always tried to do his part of the housework, though the effort hadn't done much to save his marriage.

Ten minutes later, Molly came downstairs, dressed for work. She tiptoed over to Sherlock, and then took a step back, giving Lestrade a wide-eyed look.

Lestrade shrugged, though he couldn't hide his smile.

She grinned in response and left the sleepers alone. "Good morning. Did you sleep okay?"

"Great," he said truthfully. "How about you?"

She nodded, throwing one last glance Sherlock's way before going to the kitchen cupboards. "I missed Toby, but now, I'm glad he stayed with Sherlock."

"Any other time, I'd already have pictures of this mailed out to the rest of the guys," Lestrade admitted a bit guiltily.

Molly gave him another quick smile, glancing at the narrow pantry by the refrigerator. "Um, I usually give Toby half a can of food in the morning, but he gets all excited and he'll probably jump," she said. "Do you think you could feed him when they wake up?"

"I'll give it a shot for both of them. I can probably manage toast."

"Oh. Oh god, I'm sorry. I should make something —" She frowned at her watch.

"Don't worry," he said reassuringly. "I've been a bachelor before and never starved. Just point me to the coffee — or the nearest coffee shop."

Molly smiled and gave him the thirty-second tour of the kitchen, focused mostly on coffee and cat food. She also warned him about the way the sink sometimes sprayed if the handle was turned too fast and about the cabinet doors that stuck. The coffee pot was tiny, meant to make no more than two cups; Lestrade figured he'd have to refill it two, maybe three times before he was properly awake.

As he passed the fridge, he remembered the 'evidence' from Watson's flat. He hesitated before opening the freezer and removing the paper bag. "Could you do me a favor, Molly?"

She put down the coffee filters she'd found in a cabinet. "Sure," she said, looking back. Her eyes went right to the paper bag and she frowned curiously.

"Don't _do_ anything with it — don't even look inside. Just... put it in the back of a freezer somewhere, all right?"

He could see her debating with herself, but finally she pressed her lips tight and nodded. "Okay," she said, taking the bag as she looked him in the eyes. Though she didn't speak, her expression clearly said, _I trust you, so I won't ask._

He let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Thanks. Hopefully it's nothing," he added reassuringly.

She gave him a faint smile. "Okay. If you need anything, my office number's here," she said, writing it on the dry erase board on the fridge. "Did you need me to bring anything home?"

"Thanks, but no. If you've got a spare key..."

She shook her head, giving him her key again. "I'll try to get home around half four, if that's okay?"

"That's fine. It'll probably take me that long to get him off the couch, if I even can. Don't worry — I'll take care of everything."

She glanced in Sherlock's direction before pulling on her coat and turning to smile at Lestrade again. "Thanks, Greg."

"Be careful." He watched her walk to the street before he closed and locked the door.

* * *

Lestrade read the paper in between using his phone to answer emails and texts. Toby got up around eight, demanding food. Lestrade obliged and then watched the cat eat with slow, dainty bites while Lestrade worked through his first pot of coffee. By the time a second pot was brewing, Lestrade was starting to lose hope that the smell would rouse Sherlock.

He brought a cup over to the sofa, saying, "Sherlock, I wish you'd tell me what happened," but Sherlock didn't move. Lestrade left the cup anyway before going back to the newspaper.

* * *

Nine a.m., and Toby was back on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock _had_ moved, though only to petulantly throw off the blankets. He was still in his suit and had ignored Lestrade's suggestion that he'd be more comfortable in his dressing gown.

Toby's fur was everywhere, stark against the night-black of the rumpled suit. It seemed criminal that Sherlock, always so fastidious, didn't seem to care.

Lestrade brought Sherlock toast, which he ignored, and gently suggested that Sherlock talk to him and let him help, which he also ignored.

* * *

By half ten, Lestrade's patience was cracking. He refreshed his coffee from the third pot and went into the living room. He sat down in the armchair, opened Sherlock's laptop bag, and took out his computer.

"If you won't talk to me, I'm going to have to find out what happened some other way," he said, pushing open the lid as he darted glances at Sherlock. No reaction. "No? Fine. I'll just take a look in here, shall I?" Still no reaction. "And I won't have you complain at me later for snooping."

The computer was fast, faster than Lestrade's old clunker at the office. After a momentary black screen, a text entry box appeared. Shit.

"All right, Sherlock. What's your bloody password?" he muttered. He knew he had no hope at all of actually guessing it. "Oi, Sherlock. Help me out here. Mrs. Hudson figured you'd want this thing. She packed your clothes, too."

Nothing.

Lestrade leaned back in the armchair and drank the rest of his coffee, staring at the mocking little box on the screen. Finally he leaned forward to close the lid, and he spotted Sherlock's mobile on the coffee table.

"Think I'll just check your mobile instead," he said, reaching over the laptop. He picked up the mobile, watching Sherlock intently. Still nothing.

Taking Sherlock's silence as assent, Lestrade pressed the power button. Naturally, Sherlock's mobile was more complicated than Lestrade's, but he managed well enough. A quick search through Sherlock's emails showed several recent requests for his help forwarded through his website, but nothing that gave any insight to Sherlock's current state.

He skimmed through a similar series of texts from prospective clients, all of which had gone unanswered. Then there were several texts to an unfamiliar number, most of them some variant on: _Where are you? -SH_. Only Sherlock would leave everyone in his contacts list as numbers instead of programming in their names.

Then Lestrade paused when he found a familiar text received on Sunday — the one from John Watson, asking why Sherlock was at the morgue. Looking at it now, Lestrade could see the obvious worry in the terse words: _Where are you? What happened? -J_

Lestrade quickly scrolled through the more recent texts, but that was the last one signed 'J', from that same phone number. Last night's suspicions came back to Lestrade: Maybe Watson really was in trouble. He paged back, trying to get a feel for how frequently Watson sent texts to Sherlock.

Only he found _pages_ of texts — not just brief messages but whole conversations. He paused when he came to something vaguely familiar:

_Received 21/2 5:20: Show this text to the officer. This is Dr. J. Watson. Sherlock is suffering from extreme sleep deprivation. He must be safely escorted to 221-B Baker -continued_

_Received 21/2 5:24: 221-B Baker Street. Do not take him anywhere else. Do not stop anywhere on the way. Do not give him stimulants, including nicotine or caffeine. -continued_

_Sent 21/2 5:26: You need to learn to text faster. Would you like me to teach you? -SH_

_Received 21/2 5:27: If you have any difficulty with him, you are authorized to call emergency personnel to take him to A&E. Thank you for your assistance._

_Sent 21/2 5:40: They're taking me home. -SH_

God, so _that_ was how one of Lestrade's detectives had been roped into driving Sherlock back to his flat after the Fitton kidnapping case.

He scrolled about curiously, reading snippets at random, as if that were somehow less an invasion of privacy than reading every word.

He stopped at a photo with no text attached: a small wound with two neat black stitches. Scrolling back more slowly, he found a similar photo of the same wound, bleeding freely. The text that followed the first picture explained the second:

_Received 7/2 2:30: It looks like it needs stitches. Go to A&E. -J_

_Sent 7/2 2:32: I don't want to. I can stitch it myself. -SH_

_Sent 7/2 2:42: John? Did you receive my text? -SH_

_Received 7/2 2:44: Are you on the way to A&E?_

_Sent 7/2 2:46: No. I can stitch it myself. -SH_

_Received 7/2 2:55: Then this conversation is over. If you're not going to listen to me, that's your decision, just as it's my decision not to watch you kill yourself by inches. Good night, Sherlock. -John_

Lestrade's breath caught at the obvious concern Watson expressed. And apparently the man knew just how to handle Sherlock, judging by the response:

_Sent 7/2 5:15: Do I have to go back in two weeks to have the stitches removed, or can I do that myself? I hate waiting at A&E. -SH_

Lestrade went back to searching the texts, thinking that Watson really was a better man than he himself was. He couldn't even remember how many times he'd tried and failed to get Sherlock proper medical attention.

_Food is an inconvenient necessity. -SH_

That text jumped out at him, such a moment of Classic Sherlock that it deserved capitalization. He had a feeling that Watson wasn't going to let Sherlock get away with that and scrolled eagerly down to see the response.

_If you were mine, I'd show you just how wrong you are. -J_

Lestrade put down the phone, struck suddenly by how _intimate_ these texts were. He couldn't imagine anyone even thinking to say something like that to Sherlock — not without getting verbally flayed by Sherlock in response — but somehow, John Watson had managed to slip through Sherlock's defenses. Sherlock wasn't sentimental, but he'd saved every single one of Watson's texts.

On autopilot, Lestrade went to get more coffee, still holding the mobile. He couldn't stop reading. It was like one of his wife's bloody romance novels, Sherlock-style.

Lestrade looked out the kitchen window automatically as he stirred sugar into his coffee. He didn't see anyone parked or lurking outside the house...

And Christ, he was slow! He dropped the spoon and picked up the mobile, verifying that there hadn't been a single text from Watson since Sunday. No texts, no sign that he'd been at his flat. Something _must_ have happened to him. More than ten bloody hours wasted since he'd first suspected something had gone wrong with Watson.

He actually had his own phone out, about to dial Dimmock to open a new case, when his own thoughts caught up with him. (He was smart, smart enough to have made detective inspector, but he wasn't Sherlock Holmes.)

Lestrade turned, looking into the living room at the black jacket pulled tight over hunched shoulders, trousers rucked up by Sherlock's bent knees. This wasn't the picture of a man trying to solve the mystery of his missing lover.

Sherlock had gone _two days_ without a text from Watson. Now that Lestrade had read the texts, he was certain that if Watson were injured, Sherlock would be by his side, or hunting down whoever was responsible. If John were — Lestrade hesitated to even think it, but he was a homicide detective, after all — _dead,_ surely Sherlock would be out for revenge. (And wasn't that a terrifying thought?)

But _something_ had happened...

Perhaps this was just what Sherlock Holmes looked like with a broken heart.


	7. Chapter 7

**Friday, 12 Mar 2010**

Molly Hooper was just as charming as her house, answering the door with a nervous smile. "I'm Molly. Molly Hooper. You must be Mrs. Hudson. Thank you so much for coming," she said, welcoming Emma inside.

"Oh, it's no trouble at all," Emma assured her, allowing Molly to take her umbrella and raincoat. Emma set down her heavy bag, saying, "I thought I'd left early enough, but the traffic was simply terrible."

"No, it's — It's fine. I do have to go soon, though. Let me show you around," Molly offered.

"Don't be silly, dear. You run along. I can find the tea, and I brought a nice lunch — Sherlock's favorite."

Molly would have lingered, being hospitable and making herself late to work, but Emma managed to hurry her off with reassurances and smiles she didn't feel. Ever since her unexpected, late-night meeting with Detective Lestrade, she'd been almost sick with worry for Sherlock.

"You have my number, and yours is on the refrigerator? Perfect," Emma said. "Don't forget your umbrella. Have a nice day."

As soon as Molly was gone, Emma locked the door, picked up her bag, and went into the living room. She looked around to take stock of the situation.

Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, wearing a terribly rumpled suit that was covered in fur from the cat that had taken up residence on his chest. The cat's eyes were closed; Sherlock's were open, staring blankly at the ceiling. A pillow and comforter were piled on the floor nearby.

It felt somehow _wrong_ to her that Sherlock was here, rather than back at home where he belonged. Years ago, after dealing with her little problem in Florida, he'd stayed to help her pack and move back home, though with the haphazard way he dropped things in boxes and got distracted by the most unlikely objects... well, she wasn't convinced he'd sped things along at all.

She'd seen the loneliness in him, though he took pains to hide it. So as soon as her last tenant had moved out, she'd offered the flat to Sherlock right away. They could both use a bit of company.

She still wasn't certain that _this_ was the best place for him, though. His flat was full of awful, dangerous things, but they were _his_ awful, dangerous things. And while Molly seemed like a nice girl and the detective cared, Emma was perfectly capable of looking after Sherlock herself. The two of them obviously hadn't made much progress. It looked like he'd been wearing that suit for a week! And there was his laptop, on the coffee table, without the cable plugged into the back.

Emma sighed and put down her bag. "Sherlock, it's one thing to make a mess of your own flat, but must you do it to that poor girl too?" she scolded, walking right over to him. Apparently scolding Sherlock for making a mess was automatic, she realized — even when things were disturbingly tidy. The distinct lack of clutter was a clear sign that Sherlock was doing poorly.

She found the overnight bag she'd packed for him, still zipped closed. "Up, Sherlock. You're ruined that suit enough already."

When he didn't budge, she poked at his arm, insisting, "Get up!"

There was no protest, no vicious glare — just a worrying sort of blankness that stayed on his face like a mask as she tugged on his arm to turn him over.

Emma had to physically shove at him to get him to sit upright. "Up, Sherlock. On your feet right this instant," she ordered, but he just stared towards the coffee table as though not even seeing it.

He rose only when she pulled him upright by one arm, scattering cat fur everywhere. "Oh, Sherlock," Emma sighed, picking up the overnight bag before herding him towards the loo with little shoves. Once he crossed the threshold, Emma set down the bag and reached up to take hold of his fur-covered jacket.

"Off with it," she ordered, tugging the jacket over his shoulders. He didn't fight her, but he didn't help, either. "If you insist on staying here, at least get changed into something more comfortable. Otherwise, I'll take you home, but not until you clean yourself up. No taxi driver would let you near his cab in that state."

His only answer was more of that disquieting silence.

For the first time, she hesitated, wondering if this was going too far. Sherlock was so proud, so concerned for his dignity... But he was also just standing there, so deep in whatever he was thinking that he hadn't even _looked_ at her.

The day he'd moved into Baker Street, Mycroft Holmes had given Emma a business card with nothing on it but a phone number. "For emergencies," he'd said, and gone on to explain Sherlock's trouble with drugs and his mental health issues.

This certainly qualified as an emergency.

Emma looked up at Sherlock, his dirty hair hanging in lank curls over his eyes, the front of his rumpled shirt covered in fur, his face tight and drawn. She thought about his brother, handsomely dressed and obviously well-off, speaking of Sherlock with such emotional detachment that they might as well have been strangers. And she thought about the handsome detective coming to Baker Street at an ungodly late hour to fetch Sherlock a change of clothes, and about that pretty little Molly opening her home to Sherlock. They both cared.

Sherlock didn't need emotional detachment. He needed friends who loved him, despite all his efforts to push them away.

She took out the clothing she'd packed for him, piling it neatly beside the sink. "Let's get you comfortable," she said, starting to unbutton his shirt.

She made it through three buttons before he looked down. When he lifted his hands to continue, she stepped back, pleased to finally see a sign of life from him. "You finish changing. I'll make you a cuppa."

She firmly closed the door and went to poke around the kitchen. She filled the kettle and found the tea, while she listened to the water run in the loo. How long had he been lying about like a great lump, worrying poor Molly and Detective Lestrade half to death like that? She fixed the tea and made some toast; she knew Sherlock well enough to guess he hadn't eaten any time recently.

Emma had the table set by the time Sherlock came out of the loo, dressing gown hanging loose over his pyjama bottoms and T-shirt. He'd probably left everything on the floor; she'd get it later. She couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed that he was choosing to stay here, rather than going home, where he belonged. But he'd made his choice, so she just called, "Sherlock! Come sit down. I've made you toast."

He stopped and glared over his shoulder at her.

She'd faced down fiercer opponents during the War; besides, glaring was a definite improvement over that terribly blank expression. She pointed imperiously at the table.

Sherlock sighed and dragged his feet to the table. Not looking at her, he sat down, picked up a piece of toast, and took a bite.

Satisfied that he was eating, Emma went to tidy up the nest he'd made of the sofa. She turned the cushions (finding a couple of pound coins, which she set on the coffee table, and a ragged stuffed mouse with a bell, which she tossed on the floor) to rearrange them more comfortably.

She was just snapping the blanket out to fluff it up when movement caught her eye. She looked out into the backyard in time to see a man let himself in the alley gate. He was in grey coveralls and one of those yellow rain jackets with bright silver stripes, and he was carrying some sort of electronic device in one hand.

Their eyes met, and he gave her a pleasant nod and a smile as he crossed the yard and went around to the side yard. Always wary, she kept an eye on the yard until she saw him come back around the corner. He looked back at the house, and she nodded, just in case — no harm letting him know she was watching. He just gave her another nod and a wave before he headed out the back gate once more.

Satisfied that it was nothing peculiar, she shook the blanket out and spread it over the sofa. "You really should sleep in a bed, dear," she said, addressing Sherlock's back. He remained hunched over his plate. "It's not good for your spine. Any doctor would tell you that."

His head came up abruptly, making her wonder what she'd said to make him react so sharply.

Then he went back to eating, more slowly this time. He said nothing, so Emma gave up on trying to draw him out of his silence. Instead, she fetched her plate and sat down opposite him. There was plenty of time for conversation later. Right now, she thought she might as well enjoy a nice quiet lunch.

* * *

Molly was at her desk, trying to close out one last file before letting herself think about going home, though it was pointless. She'd probably be back in tomorrow (unless Sherlock needed her) and even if she weren't, the paperwork would still keep piling up. No matter how late she worked on Fridays, it seemed that Monday mornings always started out with a foot-high stack of files on her desk. Sometimes it felt as if all of her medical training time would have been better put to use learning how to properly type and file.

When someone tapped on her door, her heart sank. She looked up, exasperated at the thought of _more_ paperwork, and feeling just a bit guilty, because a knock on her door almost always meant someone had died.

"Oh!" she said, startled. This time, she was wrong. Greg walked in, smiling reassuringly in a way she'd never before seen. When he needed information from her about an old investigation, he always frowned. When he had a new body for her to examine, his face was always closed and expressionless.

"Sorry to bother you, Molly. I was here, so I thought I'd pop by, rather than going straight away to your place — if you still want me to help with Sherlock, that is. We could share a taxi."

Molly looked to the stack of paperwork on her desk and considered sending him alone, but then decided she deserved something of a break — and perhaps Sherlock needed them both. "I'd like that," she decided, standing.

"Great. That, ah, bag I gave you yesterday morning... Still have it?"

She nodded, trying to hide her curiosity. She'd been wondering about it on and off since she'd put it in the freezer, but she'd kept her promise and hadn't looked inside. "It's in the other room," she said, standing.

"I'll get it. You get your coat on — it's raining like mad. Which drawer?"

"Bottom left, against the far wall, where we store the other... um, not-whole bodies," she said more slowly, fetching her purse from the drawer.

"Ta, Molly," he said, disappearing as quickly as he'd come.

Now she was even more curious, but she wasn't about to chase him down. She shut down her computer, locked the desk with the keys from her purse, and then put on her coat. Out in the hall, she made sure to lock her office door, pausing for a moment as she recalled the times that Sherlock had broken in — three times, actually.

She headed for the biostorage room, but almost walked right into Greg as he came out of the incinerator closet. He wasn't holding the paper bag. He smiled at her, a surprisingly relaxed, handsome smile, and asked, "All ready?"

Molly considered asking. It had to have been biological evidence of some kind — blood or tissue or something he'd found somewhere — and now he'd burned it. He was _happy_ that he'd burned it, which meant that when he'd collected it, he'd been thinking that something bad had happened. She knew it had _something_ to do with Sherlock, but she couldn't for the life of her imagine what. It had been a long week and then two days of worrying and no decent sleep.

She looked at Greg steadily for a long, quiet moment, before she decided that yes, she did trust him. He was a good detective, never asking her to spin a pathology report to match his theory of a crime. He was a good man, dropping everything in his life to come help a friend.

Molly nodded and buttoned her coat, smiling up at him. "Let's go."

* * *

Lestrade couldn't remember the last time he'd had a home-cooked meal. He rarely had the time and his wife had stopped trying after their first year of marriage. Even then, she'd been much better at pasta than at the roast, Yorkshire pudding, and sprouts that Mrs. Hudson had laid out on the table as if this sort of feast were an everyday occurrence for her. Maybe this was why Sherlock lived at Baker Street — so he could raid her fridge. He certainly didn't keep anything edible in his.

"This is fantastic," Lestrade told Mrs. Hudson, once he remembered his manners and stopped eating long enough to smile at her.

"It really is," Molly agreed.

Mrs. Hudson practically glowed at the compliments. She turned, nodding in the direction of the sofa, where Sherlock was once more nested. She'd somehow gotten him up long enough for him to change out of his suit and into his dressing gown and pyjamas.

"It's his favorite, but... Well, at least I got him to have some toast and tea this morning," Mrs. Hudson said with a little shrug. She seemed disappointed, but Lestrade couldn't help feeling a bit impressed.

An awkward silence fell as they all turned back to their plates. Lestrade looked at Molly, seeing the way she was frowning. Poor girl was _still_ in love with Sherlock. She'd probably be a while getting over him.

"So Molly, any plans this weekend?" he asked, trying to distract her. He needed to think about his schedule, at least for the next few days. At some point, he should probably call his wife and see if they could reach some sort of peace accord, or at least a cease-fire arrangement.

"I — Oh —" Molly stammered, giving him a wide-eyed stare.

"Oh! No, I mean —" He shook his head, realizing what he'd sounded like. "I can stay with Sherlock, if you do. Or I can take him back to my place."

Molly shook her head, staring fiercely down at her plate, cutting a slice of roast beef into tiny squares. "No, it's — it's okay. It's probably a good excuse not to go to the office tomorrow."

"He _could_ come back home," Mrs. Hudson pointed out.

Lestrade hesitated, wondering how to avoid offending Mrs. Hudson. Did she know even half the hazards squirreled throughout Sherlock's flat? Besides, there was no way Lestrade would let Sherlock go back there without a thorough search for hidden drugs.

"I was going to see my nephew on Sunday," Lestrade said, clumsily trying to change the subject.

Molly seized on the excuse. "You have a nephew?"

"Yeah, my older sister's. He's nine."

"Oh, they can be such a terror at that age," Mrs. Hudson said fondly.

"Don't remind me. Last fall, we were at my brother-in-law's family's place, and he got up into this chestnut tree with his cousin's doll. She's fussing and crying and pointing up, so we all see he's out on the end of this branch, and he's tying the doll to the branch with his shoelaces, daring her to come and get it."

"Little boys can be _awful,_" Molly said with an indignant huff.

Lestrade grinned at her. "Yeah, well, once she'd made sure he was in trouble with the adults, she stopped crying. We're all shouting for him to get down before he breaks his neck, and he's up there, laughing his — uh, laughing at us all, when suddenly he lets out this shriek like he'd got bit. My sister starts telling her husband to go up in the tree after their boy, because something's attacking him."

"One of those grey squirrels?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Laughing now, Lestrade shook his head. "Better. Turns out his cousin had hold of his slingshot, and she's down around the other side of the tree, pelting him with conkers — still with their spikes on."

"Good for her!" Molly cheered over their laughter. "I always wanted —"

"_Shut up!"_

Molly dropped her fork with a gasp, Mrs. Hudson twisted around to look towards the living room, and Lestrade got to his feet, chair scraping over the linoleum, all of them shocked at hearing Sherlock's voice for the first time in two days. He was standing on his feet, glaring at them all as he pushed his hands into the wild tangles of his hair.

"Shut up, all of you! I'm trying to_ think!_"


	8. Chapter 8

**Saturday, 13 Mar 2010**

Rain sheeted down over Sherlock, plastering his curls flat. His coat was soaked through, a heavy weight dragging on his shoulders and spine. Far below, the Thames was alive with splashes turned matte grey, reflecting the light from the thick overcast sky.

Hammersmith Bridge was quiet, as Hammersmith Bridge went. A steady stream of cars passed freely, rather than clogging up with the usual daytime traffic. Sherlock had chosen his location carefully, between the faint pools of illumination cast by the streetlights, carefully out of sight of the CCTV cameras.

What had happened was inexcusable. He shivered, remembering how he couldn't _think_ — how his mind seemed to have been scattered completely. He had been completely _blank_ in a way he hadn't experienced since when he'd depended on cocaine rather than mental stimulation to keep himself from stagnating. Then, he'd been seized with lethargy so heavy that he could barely breathe. He remembered feeling his heartbeat slow as his blood pressure dropped dangerously low, and he remembered not caring — until the paranoia set in.

He'd tried to force himself to get past John's words, to see the meaning behind them, but something had stopped him. He'd fought his own thoughts, getting caught in an unending circle from which he couldn't escape on his own.

Sherlock had no idea if this was 'caring'. He had no reference for it — no innate human understanding beyond the behavioral decision trees he'd learned through observation. In a crime scene, he could read the signs of love twisted into jealousy or hate. He could list the physiological changes associated with love, caused by the brain's chemical responses. He had experienced something similar — the rush of understanding as he chased obscure facts and wove them into a picture of human behavior, the artificial high of drugs, the adrenaline-thrill of surviving a deadly encounter.

But his time with John, the fifteen hours that they'd been alone, hadn't been enough to give him data. It could have been nothing more than a common physical response to sexual arousal and gratification. Sherlock could work with that, turning it into another tool in his arsenal to occupy his mind during the bleak periods between cases. It could become another high to chase, only easier to obtain and possibly more legally acceptable. Or he could let it be something else — perhaps a delusion crafted by his own imagination and curiosity. There was no _scientific_ proof that affection was anything more than a chemical response created by repeated exposure to another person during periods of elevated oxytocin levels. But he was Sherlock Holmes, in absolute control of his own mind. If he _chose,_ he could make this bond with John into something more than even he could easily define.

_Caring is not a virtue,_ Mycroft had told him with all the wisdom a twelve-year-old could muster. He spoke the words by rote, something he'd learned and memorized, and Sherlock, just five years old and sheltered from the world, had taken Mycroft's words as absolute truth. _It is a weakness, Sherlock — a chemical defect that strips a man of his intellect, reducing him to his most abhorrent, base nature. Be glad you and I have no need to suffer its debilitating symptoms. They are always fatal._

_Mycroft or John?_ he thought, leaning down to rest his elbows on the wet stone bridge railing. He hunched over, shielding his phone from the rain with his own body. He didn't need light to see the pattern of tiny keys.

There really was no question about which path Sherlock would choose.

* * *

_I would text you, but you've disconnected your mobile. Wise, that. It may not be safe._

_You're a soldier, John. You wouldn't be afraid of someone hurting you. They hurt you, but they didn't break you — not in Afghanistan and not now. They knew it, though, and they threatened something you did fear. They threatened to hurt the people who matter to you. Me._

_I understand why you said what you did. You did it to push me away, to keep me safe. You were afraid. It wasn't necessary, but you lacked all the information. I can protect myself, but because you didn't know that, and because you are who you are, you sent me away._

_But now, I know that wasn't the only reason. You didn't send me away just to protect me. Your enemy is watching you, but now, he won't be watching me. He won't know that I'm behind you._

_I'll find him, John. I'll find him for you. _

* * *

Sherlock looked at the letters on the glowing screen, scrolling quickly up to the top and then slowly down, reading and memorizing each word. One day, he'd tell John, but for now, he deleted the email without sending it. He couldn't chance Mycroft finding it — not until Sherlock was ready. He would never accept Sherlock choosing _caring_ over logic, and the distraction of fending him off would keep Sherlock from focusing on the real issue: neutralizing John's enemy.

He pocketed his phone and straightened, ignoring the ache in his back from spending far too long on a sofa that wasn't his own. He left the bridge, walking against traffic, looking for a taxi. He needed to get back to Molly's house. If he was going to do this right, he would need help.


End file.
